


Heaven Hold Us

by Galadhnar



Series: Empire of Our Own [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadhnar/pseuds/Galadhnar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trev moves into Skyhold and has feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Hold Us

Skyhold. Even in disrepair, Trev’s never seen anything like it. The fortress itself seems nearly alive – thrumming with a steady energy that Trev feels deep in her bones and her magic. _Safe_ , it tells her. _Nothing shall breach these walls._

Trev lets the peace wash over her, but studies the crumbling towers nonetheless. When the captain of the guard calls her down to inspect the catastrophe that is the prison floor, she thinks to herself with dull mirth _safe._ Her carpenters and masons tell her with some awe that whatever attacked this place, whatever brought it so low to ruin – it was nothing short of a deity. Corypheus is not a god, but he commands an Archdemon, and that’s closer than she cares to distinguish. Cullen claims to be reassured - Trev reminds herself that the demons he’s most concerned with defeating lie not ahead of him, and forgives him if he looks less reassured than he apparently feels. It is, oddly enough, Solas who sets ease to her last lingering uncertainties. Skyhold is…old. The memories in the Fade here are particularly poignant, he says, though he declines to share them. Trev regards him silently, sees the way his eyes travel the old stone, the way his feet find paths where others’ fall, and knows that whatever Skyhold is to him, whenever he has been here before, if he says that for now, it is safe - it is safe.

It has a mind of its own, this fortress, she decides, after turning a corner that yesterday she would swear went to the kitchens. Many of the doorways are still closed off, scaffolding and brick evidence of the masons’ efforts. She trudges back up the stairs and, too stubborn to admit her confusion, grunts “inspecting repairs” at the guard posted at the top of the corridor. Blasted castle! She takes it back quickly, running her hands along the rough edges of the wall. She loves this castle, already, with all its secrets and its broken pieces. It brought us in when we were most desperate, despite its own disrepair, it still reached out to swallow all our hurts. She traces a granite mosaic and laughs at herself. 

The refugees pour in, along with pledges of service and troops to bolster their battered forces. She diverts her attention, momentarily, to the procurement of supplies. Logging camps, quarries, and a supply of seed top the requisition lists, and as her fortress blooms around her, she forgets, however briefly, that the weight of the world hangs on her shoulders.

Her quarters are vast and spacious, and from the balcony she can see her whole domain. The east side opens bright to the sun, the vast mountains that encircle the fortress glint sharply in the morning, and cast a peaceful golden glow at dusk. She loves the room, but sometimes its vastness is lonely. On her way out, she pauses to scowl at the ragged Templar flag that hangs askew in the hallway. How did that get here? She stops, fist full of crimson silk, and slowly releases her grip. The Templars fell from within, betrayed by the Order they’d pledged life and loyalty to. It was, if nothing else, a symbol of what she resolved the Inquisition must never be. She makes a habit of brushing her fingers lightly over the weathered silk every time she enters her quarters. A prayer of regret, and of resolve. 

Trev is investigating Emprise du Lion, hoping to relieve some anxiety and build goodwill. What she finds, twisted through the very soul of the ground and sky, wrecks her soul. The truth of the quarries are more than she has strength to bear, and while the threats still linger, she flees back to Skyhold – for a week, for reinforcements, to assess, she says, hurriedly, words tumbling desperately from her blue lips. Her heart feels numbed by more than cold, and even Dorian’s friendly grip on her elbow as his horse brushes past feels like another life. She sits through the myriad of formalities and processions that seem they will never end – Cullen catches Leliana’s eye, and a diplomatic emergency springs into existence with an urgency that Josephine cannot ignore. Trev meets Cullen’s eyes gratefully, slipping through the crowd like a ghost – heedless of the concerned amber eyes that follow her erratic flight through a side corridor –

She breaks free of the crowd and ducks through twisting pathways, her fear and despair welling up, a tight bubble in her throat that threatens to suffocate her. She runs blindly, scraping an elbow, her vision shrinking to a dim pinprick of light as she stumbles over a beam, catches her hand roughly on ragged stone.

 

She doesn’t know where she is. Reason returns slowly, and she blinks, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Listening, she can hear nothing but the echoing drip of water on stone and timber. The foundations, maybe, she thinks. She doesn’t even need to summon fire – her hand glows sharp and eerie, casting light down the corridor. She makes a sound between a giggle and a sob, and checks herself, noting that hysteria has not fled as far as she had hoped. Tentative steps lead down, down a flight of twisting stairs, where the rushing of the waterfall can be heard more clearly now. Trailing her hand along the wall for guidance, she almost misses a slim door, plain and unassuming, tucked discreetly around a bend. Shelves greet her, draped in cobwebs undisturbed for hundreds of years. Torches spring to life as she steps through, and she starts in surprise. The waterfall makes a constant, soft roar here, echoing off the curved walls and stone floors. The steady thrum of Skyhold’s heart seems nearer somehow. More insistent. She sinks to the floor, heedless of the sticky webs. _Safe, safe, safe,_ it croons, and she lets herself believe it, again, for a moment.


End file.
